


Nobody Else Gave Me a Thrill

by Pants (Smarty_Pants)



Series: Trapped in a Romcom [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek, When Harry Met Sally
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, M/M, Road Trips, Romantic Comedy, Thoughts of blowjobs but no blowjobs, Trapped in a romcom, When Harry Met Sally - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 04:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smarty_Pants/pseuds/Pants
Summary: When David Met Patrick...or I guess maybe the romcom mashup you weren't really looking for





	Nobody Else Gave Me a Thrill

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Nora Ephron. And undying love for Daniel Levy.
> 
> Thanks to Distractivate for being my cheerleader and friend. Lots of love to the readers of Schitt's Creek fics, to the west coast writing crew at the Rosebudd and more than anything to my own special Squad Six. This is my first fic, probably not my best fic, but it's finally something. I started a series of romcom mashups awhile back and then suddenly everyone seemed to have a romcom version of David and Patrick. Still, I might have a few more iconic scenes in my brain and so this could become a series. We might even find our way to some kissing and even smut.

David Rose is making out with the horrible Sebastien Raine and Patrick Brewer is _not_ not watching this. Yes, okay, actually he _is_ watching this.

Patrick is watching as Sebastien holds David’s face in his hands a little too tightly and kisses him a little too possessively, his tongue darting in and out of David’s mouth like an angry lizard spearing a mosquito. Sebastien is wearing this horrible shedding sweater, because that’s what he wears, and he is being horrible, because that’s what he is.

Patrick stands quietly, arms folded across his chest, feeling the pink spread from his eartips to fingertips, not exactly sure why he is blushing. Maybe it is because he can’t help himself from watching as the most beautiful man he has ever seen is devoured by a sloppy-mouthed, shedding-sweater-wearing creep.

The assault on David’s mouth continues. Finally, Patrick clears his throat. “Hmm hmm. Hmm hmm.”

“Oh, hi Patrick,” drawls Sebastien. Patrick feels his fingers clench reflexively into a fist at the lazy, careless voice coming from the graduate student TA from his fine arts seminar. Patrick has gotten to know Sebastien just enough to really dislike him. This would normally mean Patrick just avoids him entirely, but Sebastien had heard Patrick was driving to New York and arranged this connection.

“Patrick, this is David Rose. David, this is Patrick Brewer.”

“Nice to meet you,” says David, pulling his eyes and lips away from Sebastien and taking in the measure of the man in front of him. _This is Patrick Brewer_. Not too tall but solidly built. Dark blue buttoned-down shirt rolled at the sleeves to reveal strong, muscled forearms. Tight jeans stretched over what looks to be a pretty nice round ass. Kind brown eyes and a half-smile, almost a smirk.

David puts out his hand and feels Patrick’s warm grip. He meets the eyes of this man—Patrick seems fresh and new and _solid—_and David looks him up and down once again. There is something in Patrick’s unwavering gaze that he can’t read, something he wants to unpack. It’s so different from the way Sebastien always shifts his eyes away, as if there is something more interesting happening just over David’s shoulder.

David’s fingers tingle from this simple touch and he finds himself wondering, almost wanting more—of whatever Patrick is or has. Who is this Patrick Brewer? What does he prefer, like, want?

(Nothing from _you_, the hateful and unhelpful part of David’s brain supplies.)

He reluctantly drops Patrick’s hand.

Already, at age 22, David is weary. He knows he is too much for most people. Too needy or too aloof. Too free with his body, too open with his sexuality, too easy by design. _Or_—as he has also been told several times: He’s too particular about what he likes, too quick to declare what is incorrect in his environment, too neurotic.

Sebastien has already made it clear that David is not really what he wants and yet David keeps trying to please him. Even in this moment, when David is leaving to create a new life in New York, when he knows that what he has with Sebastien will wither and die like every other relationship has before, still David doesn’t really know how to stop trying to please him.

And yet, here is Patrick Brewer. Cute and clearly confident, his road trip buddy for the next two days. . . most likely straight. Well, let’s face it, not likely to be into David anyway, even if he isn’t exactly straight. Which he pretty clearly is. Straight. _Isn’t he?_

What David is pretty sure about is that—no matter what Patrick’s preferences are—he is too complicated for this shiny button of a man. Saying goodbye to Sebastien doesn’t necessarily mean saying hello to Patrick. Or that the open look on Patrick’s face that is making David’s stomach swoop means anything at all. _Does it?_

With questions dive-bombing his brain like angry crows going after the same shriveled morsel, David shakes his head in an attempt for clarity. He supposes he can at least enjoy looking at Patrick over the next two days as they drive together—the two of them—from Chicago to New York. Maybe he could enjoy talking with him. He has those warm brown eyes; David could almost certainly enjoy getting lost in those a bit. Maybe there is a possibility they could get close in some way. Who’s to say?

“You wanna drive the first shift?” Patrick asks, his eyes on the tall dark-haired man who is likewise studying him.

The prospect of hours together stretch out before them like long ribbons of endless highway and this already feels a little secretly thrilling to them both. David looks away, purses his lips into a wry semi-smile and shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s your car. You can start.” _Go away, crows._

Both David and Patrick love road trips and this road trip will be the ultimate journey for each of them because at the end of it is New York, the next chapter. College happened. Graduation happened. Life is out there now, something new waiting for Patrick, something new waiting for David. As unlike as the two men may appear, they feel the same fluttering excitement in their chests, the same hopes and expectations of something _different_ available to them.

So—this part feels a bit miraculous but—it turns out they will head for this unknown future together, heading down the road on this warm June evening with everything unspooling before them. All promise, no disappointment, all twinkling lights in a new city where no one knows them.

And just maybe it's going to matter who is sitting in the next seat.

It might matter.

***

But, this journey hasn’t begun quite yet. There is still one more moment, a breath, where three very different men are standing in an uncomfortable circle in a university building parking lot. Silently sizing one another up.

Patrick leans on his Hyundai Sonata outright glaring at Sebastien, Sebastien somehow half pets and half ignores David while inscrutably eyeing Patrick, and David’s eyes dart back and forth between the other two as he swallows hard. A beat passes. Then two.

Patrick speaks again to David, only to David. “Back’s open.”

David loads his two suitcases in the trunk. Patrick slides into the driver’s seat, closes the door, windows down.

“I’ll call you,” David says to Sebastien, whose eyes roll far up into his forehead. “Or— I mean, I’ll text. I’ll text you as soon as I get there.” He reaches out his hand but Sebastien doesn’t reciprocate so David drops his hand to his side.

“Oh, _David_. Knowing your neediness as only I do, I’m very sure you will text me from the road. Remember, pet, how very busy I will be though. Don’t pester.”

“Oh, um yes. I’ll try not to text too much. Or. . . you could text me? You know I love - I - I love hearing from you so . . .” David finishes lamely.

Patrick honks the horn. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry.

“I miss you already,” David whispers to Sebastien, who isn’t listening anymore, as he settles into the passenger seat and pulls the door closed. It’s almost a question echoing in his brain now_. I miss you?_ Will he _really_ miss him?

Patrick hears the words and lowers his eyes to his hands on the steering wheel, then to his lap. Then he glances softly over at David who seems to be biting the inside of his mouth to keep from saying more.

“Bye,” says Sebastian Raine to the air and wanders away in his horrible sweater, being again horrible.

“Bye,” says David Rose quietly. And then he says more firmly, “Goodbye Sebastien,” louder with a sudden finality which surprises himself. And then he turns to really look at Patrick Brewer.

***

“I have it all figured out. It’s an eighteen-hour trip which breaks down into six shifts of three hours each or alternatively we could break it down by mileage. I made a spreadsheet which reflects the different possibilities of each option,” Patrick explains. He is shuffling with the papers that he has tucked into the driver’s side sun visor. He looks genuinely excited about the minutiae of the travel, the measurement of mile after mile putting space between him and Chicago and every petite redhead in the city. Or maybe it’s just one petite redhead in particular.

“It’s all programmed into the GPS of course,” he continues. “So, if we hit traffic, we’ll recalculate the timing of the shifts. Which is also reflected here on the spreadsheet.” He tries to hand David the papers to peruse.

David smiles at this endearing nerd. He does not take the papers, instead leans to reach for something in the back seat.

“Red vine?” David asks, offering him a long red licorice stick.

“No, I’m OK,” answers Patrick.

David chews on his red vine contently. “Why don’t you tell me the story of your life?” he says now. It’s random but David is starting to feel very comfortable with Patrick’s strong masculine presence in the small closed-in space.

_Oh, fuck reality, fuck figuring out preferences, fuck Sebastien and his fugly sweaters and the slow torturous end to that relationship._

Because Patrick. Patrick smells amazing, like fresh mown grass and toasted vanilla bean. And David is now noticing the curve of his mouth. And his strong thighs filling out those jeans.

“Story of my life?” Patrick’s voice gets a little higher as he grips the steering wheel just a little more tightly. It’s an almost unnoticeable thing really. But David notices.

“We’ve got eighteen hours to kill before we hit New York,” he says.

“The story of my life isn’t even going to get us out of Chicago. I mean nothing has happened to me yet. It’s a pretty dull story really.” David arches an eyebrow and Patrick inhales deeply through his nose.

“Are you sure about that?”

Patrick says nothing and the only sound for a minute is David chewing on his licorice. Finally, Patrick speaks.

“Well, OK, the only thing—I guess there is one thing. I just went through a pretty major breakup. So, I suppose that’s the story of my life so far.”

David nods, doesn’t speak, encourages him to continue.

“We were together on and off through high school and college. We were best friends and assumed we would get married—I mean, I had planned— but then one day, just about a month ago, I went for a hike and suddenly I knew that this wasn’t what I wanted. It really wasn’t, like I felt— I felt like I wasn’t in my body anymore and I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for air, but it was like I couldn’t get any in. Like when you are swimming and go under the water and accidentally breathe in and the liquid fills your lungs. . . it was so dark and I. . . I. . . yeah so it was a bit scary actually. I ended up at the hospital and. . .hmm.”

Traffic is slowing just as Patrick is talking. Now they are completely stopped. He glances over at David who is watching him closely. He eases up his death grip on the wheel, breathes in and out.

“Well, in the end . . . umm, yeah, it was fine,” Patrick sums up, leaving many words unsaid. He smiles a small thin smile at David, who has no doubt there is much more to that story.

“And I felt bad that I caused so much trouble. Anyway, I was supposed to take a job here in Chicago and we were moving in together. But so, after the hike and the panic attack—well I decided to leave, to pick up and move to New York, to start over and . . .here we are.”

Patrick looks out at the cars stopped ahead of him and then turns his head towards the passenger seat. He glances up through his eyelashes and meets David’s eyes. David has noticed that Patrick hasn’t used any pronouns yet for this mystery love and feels the tiniest hope. “And this person’s name was?”

“Rachel.”

“_Rachel_,” he repeats. Ahh. There it is. David’s not surprised but still feels a strange heavy feeling in his lower gut. “And what happened with Rachel?” He tries to say the name gently, without his tongue betraying any other reaction.

“Oh. We were too different. . . I guess? I mean— I thought we were meant to be together but over the years, there was just _something_ that didn’t click. I don’t know how to explain it. I wanted us to fit but we didn’t, not in the way a husband and wife should. It killed me to let her down like that. But—she and I—it never felt right. _I_ never felt right,” Patrick admits.

He then immediately wonders why he said such a personal thing to David, someone who is basically a stranger. He tries to regroup and regain his composure.

“So, that was the first unexpected thing that has really happened in my life,” he continues. “And I feel—I feel terrible but— I guess, I’m also excited, David. . . I couldn’t sleep last night for some reason—just thinking about things, wondering what else new is out there for me. That’s why I’m going to New York.”

“So—some other new thing can happen to you?”

“Yes,” Patrick answers, surprising himself with his own truth. The cars began to move again.

“Like what?” asks David, leaning forward and smiling at Patrick. Maybe this buttoned-up button was a bit more open than David thought.

“For one—now that I have my business degree—I want to help other people start their dream businesses. I could be like an angel investor, not with money, but with know-how. Maybe a consultant, assisting new businesses in preparing to launch and helping them become successful.”

“So you just want to help _other people_ start their dream businesses? To spend your time focusing on _someone else’s_ dreams?”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“Suppose you never get to have your dreams though,” David said. “Suppose you live out your whole life and you never find the time to focus on your dreams—or even to have your own dreams at all. And you never become anything and finally you die in one of those New York deaths which nobody notices for two weeks until the smell drifts into the hallway.”

“Has anyone mentioned you have a dark side?”

David huffs a bit of a laugh.

“That’s what drew Sebastien to me.”

“Your dark side.”

“Sure,” David says. His eyes narrow and he draws in a breath as he considers how we wants to continue. He doesn’t know why he cares so much what Patrick thinks anyway, why he maybe doesn’t want Patrick to know how dark he can really be.

“Why— don’t you have a dark side?” David eventually adds. “No . . . you’re probably one of those hyper-capable, ultra-normal people who creates spreadsheets for fun and plays guitar at open mic nights and goes for hikes to work out relationship problems.”

“I suppose I have just as much a dark side as the next person,” Patrick responds, not wanting to admit that David’s characterization of himself is a little too on the nose.

“Oh really?” David’s eyebrows shoot up. “When I meet someone new, I imagine immediately how it will feel to say goodbye for the last time. Sometimes I imagine the person dying in front of me moments after meeting them—that way I will never be surprised by losing anyone or anything. That—my friend—is a dark side.”

Patrick says nothing, but something dances in his eyes. David bites his lip and wonders why he has to ruin things once again by saying something awful.

It isn’t even true, not really. Not always. He hasn’t done it with Patrick, hasn’t imagined their goodbye yet. Honestly, he doesn’t want to think about very alive Patrick anywhere other than next to him, driving down the highway as the Chicago skyline recedes into the rearview mirror, his open shirt revealing a neck that David momentarily imagines dragging his teeth across.

Patrick stays quiet for a minute, then smiles as if he just worked through something.

“That doesn’t mean you’re deep or anything,” he finally teases. Patrick thinks about how he’s never met anyone like David. The way he can seem hard-edged and yet so soft at the same time. The way he smells of sandalwood and fig and lavender. The way his eyes search Patrick’s face for something when he thinks Patrick isn’t looking.

David might have depths to him that no one had seen, but Patrick guesses they aren’t nearly as dark as David has convinced himself. He wonders what it would take to be the person who got to see those vulnerabilities, those depths.

“I mean—yes basically I’m a happy person,” Patrick adds.

“So am I,” counters David.

“ . . . and I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Of course not. You’re too busy being happy,” says David, but he is smiling, too. There is no real bite to it. “Do you ever think about death?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, you do. A fleeting thought that jumps in and out of the transom of your mind. I spend hours. I spend days. . .”

David is getting into the flow of this conversation now that it has taken this turn. The artsy crowd he’d hung out with at the University of Chicago would have loved him teasing Patrick Brewer about death. While he had never fully been one of them, that was where he saw himself headed as he became more fully formed in his new life.

There was a type of cool person that David planned to become in New York, when he was no longer an insecure arts major in a toxic relationship with an older guy who used him for his pretty mouth. He would be the one in full control of his destiny—a hot pansexual man in his mid-20s with money. He’d develop a signature look—maybe something like black/white designer sweaters. Maybe he’d be running his own SoHo gallery (with or without his parents’ help) and he’d definitely fuck whoever he wants whenever he wants, even a thousand people if he wanted . . .

_Does he want that though?_ His thinking is getting a little fuzzy in this small car with Patrick so close. He is starting to think he might just want the one right person over a thousand. If there was such a one.

“And you think that makes you a better person?” Patrick says, trying to flirt a little. He’d never done that with a guy before . . . but he’d wanted to. New York without Rachel was going to be a whole new world for him—and it might all start right here, right now with this beautiful man with his smoldering eyes and crooked smirk and even his self-proclaimed dark side.

“Look, when the shit comes down, I will be prepared and you will not. That’s all I’m saying,” David asserts, not really at all sure what he is saying anymore, having lost the thread of the conversation.

“And in the meantime, you’re going to ruin your whole life waiting for it?” Patrick asks, pulling his eyes from the road to look at David.

David says nothing more but closes his eyes for a minute. He’s not nearly sure as he sounded. In fact, he is pretty much doubting everything he just said.

***

“You’re wrong,” says Patrick.

“I’m not wrong. He wants . . .”

“You’re wrong.”

“He wants her to leave. That’s why he puts her on the plane,” David says definitively.

“I don’t think she wants to stay.”

“Of course she wants to stay. Wouldn’t _you_ rather be with Humphrey Bogart than the other guy?”

“Wouldn’t _I_ rather . . .” Patrick trails off.

“Or wouldn’t a person—someone who wants to be with a man—prefer Bogart . . ?”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in Casablanca married to man who runs a bar.” The way Patrick emphasizes _man_ makes David once again wonder about his preferences, but then he reminds himself. _Rolled up sleeves, mid-range denim, girlfriend named Rachel._ _Not into you._

“You’d rather be in a passionless marriage,” snaps David, then immediately regrets it, thinking of how Patrick had just confided in him about his recent breakup. And that he has no right to get so personal with this lovely man who didn’t need the levels and layers of David’s brand of shit.

“But I’d be the first lady of Czechoslovakia!” jokes Patrick. They both smile at that.

Still, David can’t help himself and continues, “ . . . than live with the man you’ve had the greatest sex of your life with, and just because he owns a bar and that is all he does.”

There is silence then in the car. David has just suggested that Patrick have sex with a man. Not just sex but the greatest sex of his life. The words hang in the air between them. David looks down at his cuticles. Patrick swallows hard.

***

“I understand,” says David.

“What? What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Forget about it.”

“For— . . .What?” says Patrick. “Forget about what?”

“It’s not important.”

“No, just tell me.”

“Obviously you haven’t had great sex yet.” David turns to the waitress. “Two please.” She motions them to sit at a table for two.

“Yes, I have. . .?” says Patrick as they walk to the table, but the words come out tentative like a question.

“No, you haven’t,” David replies over his shoulder.

“Why would you think I haven’t had plenty of good sex?” Patrick says the words a little too loudly and the whole restaurant looks at the two men. He walks carefully with a tilted head towards the table. They sit.

David opens the oversized menu and lays it flat in front of him. He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward, chin in his hands, looking at Patrick.

“With whom?”

“What?”

“With whom did you have this great sex? From what you said earlier, I know it wasn’t Rachel.”

“Sure, I mean. Look, Rachel is a great girl,” Patrick says defensively.

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

“It _was_ with Rachel. Umm, and Amy . . . and Edna.”

“No, no, no you didn’t have great sex with. . . _Edna_. An Edna can play bridge with your mother. If you need a bikini wax at the salon, Edna’s your gal, but licking and swallowing and rimming is not Edna’s strong suit.”

Patrick looks at and through David and David wants so badly to disappear. _Why does he say these things? What is he even talking about?_

The waitress mercifully arrives. “What can I get you?”

Much to David’s surprise, it is Patrick who has the more complicated order, with many specific requests and things _on the side_.

“. . . if not, no ice cream then, just whipped cream but only if it’s real. If it’s out of a can, then nothing,” he says as he finishes his long spiel.

“Not even the pie?” she asks with a tired sigh.

“No, then just the pie, but not heated,” says Patrick.

David smiles. This is different. He has always been known as the high-maintenance one. He wonders how else Patrick might surprise him, what other roles they might be able to switch. _This is gonna be fun_, he thinks.

***

“OK, so 18% of my share is 4.68. . .$30.68. This leaves $31. . .What? Do I have something on my face?” Patrick asks as David stares at him.

“You’re a very attractive person.”

“Thank you,” says Patrick, blushing again. Thinking about how Sebastien had kissed David. How he might want to know what a man—this man—tasted like.

“Sebastien never said how attractive you were.”

“Well maybe he doesn’t think I’m attractive.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s a matter of opinion. Empirically, you are attractive.”

“I don’t really like Sebastien,” Patrick says leaning closer into David. He lifts his hand slowly and barely slightly—ever so lightly—traces the tips of his fingers across David’s cheek. “I’m not sure you do either.”

“Hmm,” David hums. He feels his skin grow hot beneath Patrick’s touch, knows he can see the sudden flush on his cheeks. His cock twitches under the lime-green formica table and he involuntarily licks his lips. Patrick sees this and smiles.

“Oh, Patrick Brewer, whatever are you doing?” David tries to tease, to cover his growing desire and vulnerability. “What would sweet Rachel think? Or Edna?”

At the mention of Rachel’s name, Patrick pulls his hand away and looks down at his fingers, as if accusing them of betrayal. David curses himself and his stupid nervous tongue. He longs to pull Patrick’s hand back to touch him again somewhere, anywhere. His eyebrows, his elbow, his earlobe, his lips.

“I don’t know, David,” Patrick sounds annoyed. “You tell me what I’m supposed to be doing, who I’m supposed to be. It sure as hell seems like I don’t know.”

“Hey— look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for teasing. But I wasn’t—I wasn’t coming on to you,” David stammers. “Can’t a man say another man is attractive without it being a come-on?”

Patrick is still looking down and David figures that humor is his only way out. “All right, all right. Let’s say for the sake of argument that it was a come-on. What do you want me to do about it? I take it back, OK? I take it back.”

“You can’t take it back,” Patrick says, finally starting to smile at the absurdity of the whole thing.

“Why not?” asks David, matching Patrick’s grin. That’s more like it. David thinks he might do just about anything to see more of Patrick Brewer’s smile.

“Because it’s already out there.”

“Oh geez, what are we supposed to do, call the cops? It’s already out there.”

“Just let it lie, OK?” Patrick says, playing along in the pretend romcom argument they suddenly seem to be having. Beneath the words though, something else is simmering. Patrick’s eyes grow darker and David thinks there might still be a chance to get back to that moment where Patrick touched his face.

“Great! Let it lie. That’s my policy. That’s what I always say, let it lie,” says David. They are both smiling broadly now and very close to giggling at the ridiculous conversation. They leave the restaurant and walk through the parking lot to the car.

“Wanna spend the night at a motel?” David blurts out just as Patrick turns the key in the ignition. “See what I did? I didn’t let it lie.”

“David.”

“I said I would and I didn’t.”

“David.”

“What?”

“We’re just gonna be friends, OK?” says Patrick, but his eyes are on David’s lips. And David is starting to feel like they are playing a game and that it’s both the most tender and most terrifying game he’s ever been a part of and neither of them actually knows the rules.

“Great! Friends! It’s the best thing,” agrees David. He knows he should be imagining the end of knowing Patrick Brewer and exactly how it will feel to say goodbye for the last time. So that he won’t be surprised by losing him when the time comes. So that he will be protected.

But all he wants to imagine is kissing Patrick hard, searching his mouth desperately for solace and watching as he comes undone. 

***

“You realize of course that we can never be friends,” David says these words as though they are an iconic line from a movie—even as he’s not sure he really feels them. Says them as though someone else were putting them in his mouth. An unseen scriptwriter, a puppet master, who is controlling him now.

What he thinks he wants to say is, _I’ll be your friend, Patrick, if that’s all I can have. I can be your best friend. Whatever you want from me, Patrick Brewer, it’s yours. Anything you want. _

“Why not?” Patrick isn’t sure if they are still joking or not.

“What I’m saying is that attractive people can’t truly be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” 

David hopes Patrick can see in his eyes that what he means is: _Please stop the car. Let’s go to the closest motel with a bed. I want to try being naked and vulnerable with you. Patrick Brewer. I will give you anything, I will take anything from you. _

“That’s not true. I have plenty of friends and there’s no sex involved.”

“No, you don’t.”

_If not a hotel, it could be right here in the car. David could get on his knees, shrug down Patrick’s tight jeans. He could take Patrick’s cock in his mouth, heavy and full, taste the leaking pre-cum as he swirls his tongue around his tip. He could make them both crazy. He could take Patrick deep and swallow until. . . _

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You only think that you do.”

“Are you saying I’m having sex with my friends without my knowledge?”

“No, what I’m saying is—depending of course on their preferences and _yours_—they all want to have sex with you.” _Like me._

“They do not.”

“Do too.”

“They do not.”

“Do too.”

“How do you know?” Patrick asks, his eyes large.

“Because no person can be friends with someone they find attractive. You always want to have sex with them.”

“So you’re saying a person _can_ be friends with someone they find unattractive.”

“Well . . .”

David has gone too far again. Why is he saying these things? Why is always _too much_? He’d better lighten up this moment with humor. Breathe, David. Damnit, take a breath and laugh.

“Nah, you pretty much wanna nail them, too.”

Patrick chuckles then, a light beautiful laugh. “What if they don’t want to have sex with you?” he asks coyly.

“Doesn’t matter, because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story.”

Patrick nods, playing along.

“Well . . . I guess we’re not going to be friends then?”

“Guess not.”

“That’s too bad,” Patrick says to David, his eyes twinkling and the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin. He doesn’t believe a word of it. “You are the only person I knew in New York.”


End file.
